


The Four Times James and Michael Had Sex, And The One Time They Made Love

by zoomzoomzuppa



Category: Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, RPF - Fandom, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: A lot of sex, Absurd amounts of sex, James/Michael having sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoomzoomzuppa/pseuds/zoomzoomzuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James McAvoy jokingly told an interviewer that he and Michael Fassbender had engaged in coitus four times during filming. This is born purely from that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Four Times James and Michael Had Sex, And The One Time They Made Love

The first time is nervous, fumbling and quick. Accidental describes it best, clothes still a lingering existence clinging to the sweat of their act that pours out of them. A questioning glance passes between them, brief, calculated. Michael looks almost as though he wants to lean in and ghost his lips over James’, but doesn’t, thinks he shouldn’t. He looks up, meets James’ eyes ever so briefly, then strides out, stuffing his shirt in his pants, righting himself and wiping away stray sweat from his forehead. James exhales, confused and dripping with post-coitus and dwelling in clothes he refuses to right.

 

-

 

The second time is when they’re drunk; it’s the only way James can get Michael to kiss him, and even then it’s in the dark shadow between their trailers, pressed tight, all silent but for the smacking of their inebriated lips. Michaels gruff, dragging James into his trailer, slamming the door behind him and tearing at the costume James is still devilishly dressed in. A few plastic buttons tumble to the floor in their dying moments and James has a clear, close moment of trying to figure out whether or not he’ll be in trouble in the morning for its ruins, but Michael’s incessant hands on James’ newly revealed abs cut off any brain function he had left. They tumble down onto the lumpy mattress and Michael rushes his fingers every which way, pressing, probing, sloppily drawing both of their clothes off until in the stark bitter yellow light of his lamp he sees their sweaty forms nearly melded.

 

Pupils blown, breathing haggard, a brief moment of sobriety bringing a flicker of uncertainty to his hands and he’s back on James, tongue shoved down the smaller man’s throat and fingers prying their way into him, seeking warmth and completion. It goes from two-finger pain, to three-finger pain to excruciating pain as Michael drunkenly slid himself into James, disregarding the lack of preparation. Legs thrown over Michael’s shoulders and erection slapping between their stomachs, James bites his fist to prevent himself from yelping aloud, giving himself the mental preparation of dealing with the painful pleasure of each stroke. Tight and rough and painful and yet hitting just the right spot and James  _feels_  the guttural moan that slips from Michael’s lips as he comes inside him. Michael then slumps down on top, suddenly asleep.

 

James doesn’t know what to do, so with a whimper pulls himself free, their sweat the easing lubricant for his escape. Quickly he dresses in the tattered remains of his costume and stumbles to his trailer, the inspection his worn body warrants left for the next morning.

 

-

 

The third time starts when Michael sends him a look over the dinner table, James in mid-conversation with Oliver Platt, who is telling an insanely inappropriate joke that has James choking on his pasta. James’ eyes crinkle in a way that makes Michael question the feeling rumbling in the bottom of his stomach and when he finally catches the stark blue gaze he’s been searching out he all but blushes into his salad, a curious January Jones prodding him with her plastic fork, curious if he’s well. A mumbled reply into his napkin and that shit-eating grin thrown to dissuade her further prodding and Michael disappears from the table, disappears outside to suck the life out of a cancer stick.

 

James tries not to follow his movements, follow the lithe walk and frame until it disappears through the doorway, but seems unable to keep himself from doing so. Oliver Platt, oblivious to the stare, finishes his joke; James just aware enough to know that he should be laughing does so,  _well it was funny_ , and lingers for a few more seconds before excusing himself and following his cast-mate out.

 

Waiting for him by the door to the mess is Michael, an  _eager_  Michael, who gruffly says  _let’s go_  in his ear before dragging him off in the direction of his trailer. Wishing he were Professor Xavier, wishing he had fucking  _mind reading_ abilities, James questions each of his sober and yet desperate steps as he follows Michael, and as soon as the door closes behind them he is pushed roughly against its surface. Lips are sent crashing and tumbling over each other and Michael doesn’t hesitate to rip at James’ buttons. The latter male pulls away, grumbles about how in trouble he was in the last time this happened, and is then greeted by Michael’s tongue taking advantage of his opened lips.

 

He takes care to undo Michael’s belt and pants for him, saving the taller more oblivious man the trouble of dealing with them later, and Michael shucks them from his ankles, his erection straining in his underwear and really  _seeing_  it for the first time makes James’ jaw go slack. Michael bites his way from James’ lips to his neck where he sucks, briefly,  _no marks now_ , and then travels down his bare chest, met with James’ own hindering belt buckles. Fussing for a moment and then dragging the slacks, as well as his under garments, to the floor, Michael licks the tip of James’ throbbing erection before standing again. A tremor of a shudder runs rampant over James’ body as Michael wraps his arms around him tight, smashing their ribs, their cocks, their mouths until even air is trying to be free of the cage of flesh.

 

They fumble to the bed, James awkwardly having to pull himself free from his pants at his ankles, the liberation brief as Michael pushes him down. Hungrily he slides between James’ thighs, right hand working his way to James’ waiting ass. Feeling the dry slip of two fingers James winces and suddenly is brought back to a not-so-lusty reality.

 

“Wait, Michael,” a hoarse request that causes the very hungry-bear like nature of Michael to pause.

 

“Goddamnit,  _what_  James?”

 

James slides onto his elbows, suddenly almost doe like, catching Michael off-guard. “Careful, please.” It’s a soft request, humble and shy and for the first time Michael kisses him tenderly, but only for a moment. The gentle and honest nature of James’ request makes Michael ache harder and he groans against James’ lips, suddenly needy and rough and clingy but he’s  _careful_  this time, careful and far more tender than the initial intrusion and when he slides in with a wet ease they’re both adjusting swimmingly to the large, throbbing cock halted inside James.

 

For a second, really a split second, Michael glances at James’ eyes; James suddenly realizes that not  _once_  has Michael looked at him during this and his cock all but flutters between them. A mischievous grin topples over Michael’s lips and he pushes his head against James’ chest as he slowly pumps his lovers cock with one hand, the other keeping him steady as he presses deep, deep  _fuck deeper, Michael_ , and James throws his head back against the window shade, a clatter they both ignore.

 

Michael’s speed picks up and up and up and James is moaning so loudly he stops caring about whether or not Michael is just a fuck or if the crew and cast know because it just feels  _good_  and fuck if feeling good is a crime because Michael isn’t a crime and he’s so hot and warm and when Michael comes and pumps James into oblivion he swears he sees stars for days.

 

No rest for the wicked, of course though, and James hears a knock on the door mere minutes after they’ve fell about themselves with laughter,  _Michael, to set please?_ and James watches Michael pull on his clothes and leave without a word, just merely a smile, and he can’t help but hate that he  _isn’t_  hating himself after this.

 

-

 

The fourth time is in the middle of the night, when James can’t sleep and can see Michael’s cigarette smoke fiddling its way out the window of his trailer, his frame against the windowsill, yellow-lit. He doesn’t knock, just walks in and sees Michael naked, eyes closed, head tilted, hand pumping over his length like it’s his fucking job. James bites his lip, gives Michael a look just as his eyes open to slits and walks over, taking care to pull his clothes off properly for once. A flip of unbutton and unbutton and unbutton and some zipping and some sashaying sexily for effect and he slides on top of Michael without a second thought, tasting cigarette and whiskey, reveling in the feel of his stubble against his chin. A moan escapes him as his half-hard arousal sweeps across Michael’s aching length and Michael echoes it, fingers suddenly dabbing out his cigarette and sliding over James’ sweaty body down for preparation and James tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care that there isn’t real tenderness to this, that there isn’t real gentle touches just man on man attraction and lets himself eventually be lowered down on top of Michael, sheathing the gruff man inside him fully.

 

Michael’s hands rest on James’ hips to steady him, but his eyes are closed or elsewhere as he starts to move and James doesn’t care that he doesn’t look at him, listens to the  _yes_  that gets hissed between Michael’s teeth as he starts to pump up harder and harder with each desperate need for release but then he switches. He slows and James doesn’t know what’s happening until he’s suddenly facing the pillows, on his knees, his ass lifted high and held by Michael’s sturdy hands as he slides in and out, effectively driving into the spot that starts to make James become undone.

 

Hanging down, painfully hard and needy is James’ cock, dangling and untouched, and he seeks to remedy it but Michael slaps his hand away, gruffly says  _no, just wait, just wait, come with me_ , as if James will ever have a choice on the matter ever again and Michael slams into him, picking up speed and stamina and holding James’ hips still, both of them mesmerized by the echoing of flesh on flesh, their moans drawing each other closer and closer until Michael can’t, he just can’t anymore and he comes inside of him, hitting James in all the right spots and he needs, he needs something to something and Michael’s hands slide once, twice, three times over his cock as he rides out his own orgasm and James spills all over onto Michael’s bed with a breathy whimper that almost makes Michael want to start up all over again.

 

James collapses onto the mattress, a sweaty semen covered mess of flesh and bone and hair tangled to his brow and he lets out a moaning sigh of relief that turns to a whimper when Michael pulls out of him, trailing his own cum with him, and James can’t help but just wish it didn’t have to end like this again. Michael stumbles back against his dresser, reaches for another cigarette and without warning is wearing that  _infernal_  fedora on his head again and James almost glares at him before wobbling over to his clothes.

 

“Bow-legged much?” Michael chimes and James does glare this time though there’s no heat, no anger, and he slides into his pants with a shrug, barely buttons his shirt before half-heartedly waving Michael off.

 

“You wish,” he musters with a grin, then leaves, not giving either of them time to over think anything, both restricted thinking the other can’t do this anymore, won’t do this anymore and now has to deal with months of filming with hard-ons and pain until life gets easier again.

 

And if as James leaves Michael doesn’t almost feel his heart follow him, he certainly doesn’t let it show in how slumps onto his bed, head in hands, body weak.

 

-

 

The night of the premier is the first time they’ve seen each other in months, and after having to grow comfortable with filming, they ease back into the friendship not a single soul ever questioned. James grabs Michael in a hug, his grin easy and simple and Michael welcomes it, welcomes James’ strangely comfortable fingering of his hair or the easy joy in his eyes that means so much more than it should to him. The movie is a good distraction for the audience as they play catch-up, as they joke about everything they’ve missed and still miss about filming, and twice January turns around a shushes them with a grin on her lips, Kevin Bacon shoving her playfully to her right (Kyra Sedgewick then playfully shoving him back as retaliation for women everywhere.) And suddenly it’s all perfect and right and even though there’s that linger, that need, that fire that races over their skin whenever the other touches hand to hand for the sake of attention, or for the sake of pretending it means nothing, they ignore it verbally, try to ignore the static crackling between them.

 

James is tired after the movie, but follows the cast to the after party where getting smashed doesn’t sound so terrible anymore. A drink finds its way to him and Michael, from across the bar, tips his hat, knowing just how James still likes it. James and Kevin Bacon get caught up doing Sean Connery impersonations and Michael gets lost in telling jokes to Nicholas and Jennifer, who are leaning on one another for the sake of their sanity as they choke on laughter. James can see Michael’s smile from across the room and Michael can sense James’ gaze but doesn’t turn, doesn’t think he can or he might do something stupid, so they both let the night wear on and wear down.

 

Three am hits like a sledgehammer of alcohol to the brain and it seems only James and Michael are the ones sober enough to help everyone stumble back to the cabs. A last farewell to Jennifer as she spills against Zoe in the backseat of a cab leaves James and Michael taking deep breaths of warm spring air into their lungs, laughter hitting their chests. They gulp in each other until they practically taste each other and Michael asks  _where are you off to_  when James starts to head in the direction of his hotel.

 

“Marriot,” he thumbs, and Michael smiles.

 

“Me too,” and laughs and laughs and they stumble together, singing old Irish drinking songs to hobos as they pass along the way. They amble into the lobby, immediately standing straight up to avoid any misrepresentation of what stand-up gentlemen they are, and James tells Michael to not go to his room, to follow to James’ room, and he does, like a puppy.

 

Exactly like a puppy, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet and panting, hands out in front of him like paws, gaining the disapproving glances of other hotel patrons as they stumble against the doorframe, then through it to James’ suite. Michael lets out a low whistle,  _guess Professor X gets all the best shit_ , and laughs until he looks up and sees James staring at him.

 

Not just staring. Looking.  _Watching_  him. And suddenly that electricity is back and before either of them know it they’re standing two inches apart in the living area of the suite. Michael’s hand is warm, brief as it travels over James’ shoulder, up James’ thin neck and then to his cheek, where he contemplates how he’d ever managed to  _not_  do this for so long, then pulls James’ face to his and it’s  _not_  what James’ expects.

 

The kiss is soft. Tender. Gentle. Things Michael never seemed capable of, and yet always was, in ways. Michael’s fingers play with James’ hair, then suddenly he pulls away and rests his forehead to James’, leaving the latter suddenly needing more and inwardly whimpering  _no, no, no, don’t regret it_. James looks up to realize that Michael’s been staring at him now and it means something, it means everything and it channels its heat to him and shudders down his body until he can’t take it anymore. He licks his bottom lips, takes in a breath and shakes out,

 

“Michael, my friend,” and Michael kisses him again, taking the words from his mouth as if to say  _no, no, not just friend, no James_  and James feels it and pulls Michael closer, feels Michael’s arms sling around his waist and he holds him. Just holds him and pulls apart from his lips and James doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

 

“James, I,” he gulps, their noses pressed into each other’s cheeks. “I love you.”

 

It’s a whisper. A promise. A need. James knows it and wheels his head back slowly and holds Michael’s face by his cheek.

 

“I know.”

 

Michael starts to laugh, which makes James start to laugh.

 

“I am  _not_  the Princess Leia to your Han Solo,” he howls, attempting to tickle James’ sides. James lets out a huff of a laugh.

 

“You set yourself up for it love,” and laughs again and then Michael is kissing him again, muttering  _but_ kiss _you_  kiss  _know_  kiss  _I_  kiss  _do_  kiss and James pulls away again.

 

“Listen Fassbender, I’ve loved you for months. Shut the  _fuck_  up and  _get in my bed_.”

 

And hand-to-God, Michael did just that.


End file.
